


Unheralded

by Nabielka



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 20:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17392817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: Damen and Laurent get caught after Breteau and escorted to Nikandros. AU from chapter 12 of Prince’s Gambit.





	Unheralded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunavagant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunavagant/gifts).



Nikandros had come north to meet with the Prince of Vere.

The letter that had been sent to him was worn now from frequent unfolding, the paper soft and creased at the fold. He had carried it with him, much as he had carried Damianos’ lion pin, hidden amongst his effects. Nikandros was not for the most part a man given to great sentimentality; even if he had been, he was not a Veretian lord, to transport an amphora with the red figures depicting a gladiatorial duel that Damen had given him on the occasion of his appointment, or a set of spears better suited to a ceremonial guard on parade than anyone fighting border skirmishes. Such things he kept in his chambers at Marlas, and saw them only as time allowed, leaving them to the care of his slaves. 

The situation being what it was, he could hardly claim great surprise at encountering him. Nevertheless, he had thought of himself as riding through the gates of some Veretian stronghold by the border, Fortaine perhaps, or Ravenel, where the prince would meet him on the steps in the Veretian way. He had thought alternatively of some arranged meeting place where they could meet with greater privacy: a private room at an inn, a particular cave in the woods. 

He had not thought that the Prince of Vere would come to him. 

If he had thought of it, he would have imagined a herald sent ahead, or even, Veretian politeness not being that of the Akielon nobility, his outriders out of breath and gasping out the advance of a force that turned out not to be so hostile after all. Certainly he would not have imagined the prince to have come with only one man, and to be held up in chains by two of Nikandros’ men. A few more were standing behind him, whether out of respect for the station he claimed or out of an estimation of his fighting abilities. 

He was very blond. Nikandros thought, with a pang, of Damianos. 

He was also as mouthy as Damen liked – had liked – his free lovers. “You had a letter from me, my lord kyros. You hold now my signet ring. There is really no need to hold my person in this manner.” 

The words Nikandros had had so often before his eyes had been in stilted Akielon. The way the prince spoke now did not carry the same effect, though the words were tinted with a Veretian accent more pronounced than the variant Nikandros was used to hearing in Delpha. 

“We found them in the hills,” said Oroites, a scout new to Nikandros’ army. 

The Prince had drawn Nikandros’ attention from the moment of their entry. The words of his soldier swung his gaze to the Prince’s companion, held in much the same way, but behind him. He intended only the brief assessment of the man’s standing and his likely strength. Instead, he took the closer sight of him like a physical blow. 

It was not possible.

Damianos was dead. He had not seen the body – and that too had hurt, that too was hard to accept, harder perhaps even than the mere fact of Damianos being gone, for it had been the sight of his father’s body that had made it real for him. He did not know how to accept the finality of death without the finality of a body that no longer breathed. But Damianos was dead, whether or not Nikandros had felt the truth of it sink down to his bones. Had Damianos been alive, he would have mounted a challenge to Kastor. Nikandros, who had had his doubts about Kastor before, and had had them rejected, nourished greater suspicions now, and maintained an alertness that had sent the Prince’s letter to him. 

And yet he would have known Damen anywhere. 

He had known him as a child dressed up or the masquerade in an elephant costume Damen had chosen in hopes of avoiding recognition, had known him when he had returned after two years at the Kingsmeet to find Damen taller and newly muscled, had known him even when Damen, at six, had to have his hair shaved off because he had escaped his attendants and caught head lice. He recognised him even in clothes which, though they were not the ornate overly-complicated fashions Nikandros recalled from the Veretian lords of Delpha at the time of his appointment, were clearly cut in the Veretian style, his hair overlong, his head down. 

“Damianos,” he said, half on a breath, and fell down to his knees. 

He had not seen Damen since that night he had failed to convince him to take warning. That night he had tossed in his bed and trodden his chambers and sent out his slaves, and still could not find relief or comfort. In years gone past, he had often greeted Damen in a more informal manner, save when they were participating in some grander affair of state that called for the full honours to be paid. He felt less sure of his standing now, and besides, he had thought Damianos dead. 

His head was bowed, but his eyes were raised. He saw Damen turn his head towards the Prince of Vere, his shoulders suddenly held very tense. The prince, who must have felt his gaze on him, did not react, except to guide his own eyes down from where Nikandros’ head had been to its current position. 

Of course, he must have known. He had promised proof of Kastor’s treachery against Theomedes, and though nowhere had he written the name of Damianos, their deaths had been so entangled together that proof of one gave credence to the other. He had requested aid; he could have felt a nudge of sympathy for those whom similar misfortunes had befallen. Nikandros had expected other proof, compromising letters dispatched by Kastor to his co-conspirator perhaps, but he had no cause for complaint at all. Damianos was more than sufficient proof; even if he had not been, Nikandros would not have begrudged it. 

He felt a surge of warmth towards the Prince of Vere, who had brought Damianos back to him. It was good to have an ally. What’s more, it soothed his conscience, which had not been easy at the thought of providing aid in such a way without authorisation from his king. For all that he had knelt before Kastor at the Kingsmeet and given his oath, it was to Damianos that command of him fell. 

His moment of happiness did not last long. He made to rise, slower than he had fallen, as was custom, when a golden flash caught his eye. He might not have paid it much attention, for in Akielos slaves were commonplace and in Vere everything was finished with gold leaf, but they were in his tent and no slave would kneel by his side at moments like this. It might have frozen him in place, save that as one rose from one’s knees there was no sensible position to pause at before one straightened. 

Fully upright as he had been before, he could only just make out what he had missed earlier, a flash of something through the gap in that high Veretian collar and at Damen’s wrists where the long sleeves came to an end. Yet Nikandros knew what he had seen, and yet could not believe the message of his own eyes. 

Damianos in slave cuffs and collar was beyond his comprehension of the world. If he had thought of Damen in disguise, he might have said he might pretend to be a guard of some sort, which would allow the Prince to keep him close for protection, and which made for a credible function for him to fulfil. Indeed, had the throne passed some generations ago down a cadet line stemming from Queen Eradne, and had Damianos been born into a noble family but not an Exalted one, he might indeed have found himself in his youth in such an occupation, which was an honourable one for a free man. Pretending to be a slave was not an honourable pastime, and did not befit one of Damianos’ rank. 

The men who had unwittingly brought their king to their commander had fallen too, their red cloaks pooling on the floor like blood. They were white-faced; it was treason to lay one’s hand on the royal family. If they had treated him civilly, they would still not have reached the merited level of respect, and besides, he accompanied a Veretian; they would have taken him for one who had fled Delpha rather than submit to Akielon governance. 

It was the scout who spoke, the most senior of the men. He would have commanded them in what they had done. He spoke to the floor. “Please, Exalted, punish me and spare the others. I gave the orders.” His voice did not shake, though he knew what could await him for such an offence, compounded by his taking on the responsibility for his fellows.

“Leave us,” said Damen, who had not turned to him, and did not turn now to see his orders carried out. 

They were left together: Nikandros, Damianos, and the Prince of Vere. 

It came suddenly to Nikandros that he had not been an attentive host, overpowered as he had been by his joy and surprise at seeing Damianos. He turned and addressed himself to Prince Laurent, taking out from behind his breastplate the signet ring delivered up by the messenger along with the prince’s delayed reply. 

“Be welcome to our camp, Your Highness. Shall I send for some refreshments?” In Nikandros’ experience, a Veretian noble was never far from something to consume. “Have your plans changed? I understood we were to meet at Ravenel.” An Akielon commander who arranged to meet with an ally kept to his commitments and did not thrust his presence upon an ally in an untimely manner. Veretians were unreliable.

The prince did not extend his hand. “You may have need of that yet,” he said. “No, this was an unplanned detour, shall we say?”

Nikandros was sick of unplanned detours. He had only recently had to castigate Makedon for his own. That was still difficult, though he had served as kyros these past six years, for Makedon was many years his elder, and a man of correspondingly greater experience. Makedon had no time for Veretians, except to kill them when he thought it merited.

Damen, whose gaze had been resting on the Veretian prince as though awaiting a delayed reaction, finally turned his gaze back onto Nikandros. He said, “What were the terms you agreed?”

Nikandros frowned. “We would provide aid against the Regent of Vere in return for proof that he and your brother colluded to kill King Theomedes. Will you ratify it? Is it not in keeping with your own agreement?”

Damianos seemed not to hear him. “My father,” he said, as if lost in thought. Then, his voice sharper and aimed no longer at himself, not even at Nikandros, but at the Prince of Vere, “You knew?”

“Of course,” said Prince Laurent, and let the words hang in the air. His eyes were fixed on Damen’s face. After a pause, he added, as if it were an idle matter, “Everybody in the Veretian court knew it wasn’t a natural death. All those visits from the physicians that only made him sicker? Guion with a treaty in hand? Kastor killed him, and took the city with my uncle’s troops.” 

Slaughter had spread throughout the palace, all of Damianos’ household put to the sword in turn. Nikandros said, “There were questions, but for every one, Kastor had an answer. And you were dead. We didn’t know that you were hiding away as a slave.” He tilted his head in acknowledgement, but could not bear drop his gaze down to the evidence of it. “It’s as unthinkable to me as it would have been to Kastor.” 

Whatever change came upon Damianos’ face did not come from humour. He said, “Call for a blacksmith.”

He did, and as the room had been emptied, had to cross the room and speak to the sentry outside. Stepping away from Damianos made it more real, a weight sinking down Nikandros’ stomach. He thought of the likely response of an Akielon soldier towards a slave who was not obedient. 

It was pointless now to tell Damianos of the danger as though he were some green boy in his first season of warfare. Kastor was dangerous; that had become clear. What danger there had been had been faced or evaded.

Prince Laurent said, “We agreed, until it is over.”

“It is over,” said Damen. 

Then, turning so that his attention encompassed both the prince and Nikandros, he said, “We will draw up a new alliance. Our enemies plot together; their reach extends from Arles to Ios. It makes good sense that we too join forces against them.”

“Yes,” said the Prince of Vere after a beat. “That being so, perhaps the kyros should know what kind of opponent he proposes to face.”

Nikandros was not proposing anything. “I serve my king.” 

“Laurent,” said Damen. 

The prince paid him no heed. “In fact, for me to keep Damianos as a slave was not unthinkable to Kastor, nor indeed to my uncle.” 

It was absurd. Nobody could look at Damianos and imagine him as a bedslave, his thighs parted, he himself positioned on a bed with calculated allure, his entrance glistening. Nobody could look at his bulging muscles, that coiled strength, and imagine him kneeling by their side, an idle hand stroking his hair. 

Nikandros said, “It matters little if they know now. Every Akielon will know it was only a temporary disguise.”

“Yes,” said the prince, drawing it out a little. There was a half-smile on his face. “That is the best way to portray it, if you think it can hope to succeed. But should it be doubted, your credibility will be undermined.” 

The world tilted. Nikandros said, grasping at reality, “No one would believe Damianos a slave.”

Damen said again, with greater insistence, “Laurent.”

The prince continued, his expression unchanged. “That will be difficult. My men love to gossip.” 

“Enough,” said Damen, but Nikandros scarcely heard him. He felt as though he were back in Ios on a stormy night, the wild wind roaring in his ears. His gaze fell back to where the gold coiled around Damen’s skin. 

“You were his slave,” he said, and did not recognise his own voice. 

It was harder to believe than Damianos’ survival. An enemy could spread false tales of his rival’s death, a man evading danger might hide away. A free-born Akielon could not be made a slave, certainly not a noble, certainly not the prince.

It was not possible. And yet Nikandros saw the look on the prince’s face, saw the gold trappings on Damen’s body, the manacles, the collar. He thought madly of Delpha, and of what it meant for the king to be mastered by an enemy prince, submitting to him in body and will as a slave did. He thought of Prince Laurent and his arrogance in what was after all an Akielon tent, the way he had not obeyed Damianos as any other man might have done, and felt that he might be sick.

“It was Kastor who sent me to Vere as a slave, with the Regent’s collusion,” said Damianos, as though that justified it, as though the Prince of Vere had not failed to immediately remove the cuffs as he ought, had not kept a man who was his equal – if not his better – in rank as his slave. Had he laughed in Vere of how that was the rightful place of the representative of Akielos? Had he made Damen prostrate himself, had he spread his legs and buried himself inside?

Nikandros felt flushed with rage. Had he held a sword in his hand, he would have swung it with such force as could cleave the prince, a man who did not look to have his bulk or his strength, in two. He wanted the prince to know how badly he had misstepped; he wanted him to wish he could have changed it with the ferocity Nikandros had felt, turning over the lion pin in his hands. 

Damianos was back. The decision of how to deal with the prince no longer belonged to Nikandros. 

He said, “Exalted, I beg permission to challenge the Prince of Vere to a duel of honour for the insult that he has done to you. To first blood, and the troops need never know.” For the sake of keeping secret all that had happened, as well as for the sake of avoiding giving the Veretian Regent an easy casus belli, it could not be a duel of greater consequence. That scarcely mattered; it was possible to make an opponent feel the full force of the sword even with smaller stakes. It was the principle that counted. 

“Denied,” said Damen. “Enough of this. You yourself brokered the alliance, kyros. It will be kept.” He turned his back on them and made his way over to the sand tray over which Nikandros had been standing before his king and the Veretian prince had been brought in. He had smoothed it flat before he had allowed their entrance; even now he felt some sand trapped under his nails. 

Damianos bent his head over it and stretched forth his hand, and for a moment Nikandros might have been in any command tent, even the one from six years ago, before Sanpelier, before Marlas, on the eve of victory. The generals would be around them. They would be awaiting the approbation of King Theomedes.

Instead there was the stillness of his own command tent, the quiet that fell among them as Damianos sketched lines in the sand, as they waited for the blacksmith to prepare his tools and come to them, on the eve of an uncertain war that would span half the continent. The troops would have to be told; letters would have to be sent out to the other kyroi. To Kastor. 

For now, the firelight was in Damen’s hair. He was alive. 

Nikandros tried to focus on that, and be content.


End file.
